


Watch Him Now, Here He Comes

by PeopleCoveredInFish



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dubious Ethics, False Identity, Hot Touou Coach, M/M, Power Play, Rimming, Teacher-Student Relationship, possibly underage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 15:53:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2156406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeopleCoveredInFish/pseuds/PeopleCoveredInFish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just when Harasawa thinks he’s gotten away with keeping the man at the border of his peripherals, he lays his hand right on top of Harasawa’s, grin slicing through anything like pretense, thumb sketching figure eights—or is it infinity—across his knuckles. “I’m a student,” he says, and then, after carefully scanning Harasawa’s face, “at the University.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watch Him Now, Here He Comes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hilaryfaye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hilaryfaye/gifts).



> Warning: while consent is given enthusiastically, it is under false pretenses.

He's been teaching for too many years to feel anything but the barest outline of nerves the night before term, even at a new school, but he's at the bar and the only explanation he can dredge out of himself is the slow dread of a quiet evening. The sun hangs heavy through the window, at its lowest point before dropping into dusk.

Harasawa is leaning against the solid oak of the bar, offerings his lighter to a man maybe eight years his junior who bows his head in a trace gesture of modesty, his shoulders curved slightly in an almost confident resignation. "Thank you kindly," he says, voice sliding over the roundness of the phrase. He opens one eye until it's a sliver of storm grey behind the lines of his glasses, and Harasawa isn't leaving.

A sudden instinct has him clicking the lighter and holding it in place just between them so the man has to lean forward. His hair falls over the breadth of his cheekbones and he looks directly at Harasawa as the cigarette between his lips catches light and begins to smolder. He inhales quickly, exhales a column of smoke, and accepts Harasawa's offer to buy him a drink.

Harasawa tries not to watch too closely as his new companion pours half a glass of bourbon down his throat, head thrown back and the pillar of his neck bared. He sets the tumbler down on the bar and brushes his mouth with the back of his hand, sighing with apparent pleasure. Just when Harasawa thinks he’s gotten away with keeping the man at the border of his peripherals, he lays his hand right on top of Harasawa’s, grin slicing through anything like pretense, thumb sketching figure eights—or is it infinity—across his knuckles. “I’m a student,” he says, and then, after carefully scanning Harasawa’s face, “at the University.”

 _Which university_ , Harasawa wants to ask, and doesn’t. Instead, he smiles into his own admission. “I’m a high-school teacher.”

The man—he can’t be older than twenty-three, and if that doesn’t make some small, sick part of him roar into conflict with the cold and forbidding terrain of his superego, then he’s no judge of his own character—says nothing. His touch on Harasawa’s hand is light, skating. Harasawa asks for his name, and he surges smoothly through Harasawa’s personal space, speaking softly into the curve of his ear. “How far is your place from here?”

It’s the fastest seven-minute walk he’s ever taken. Harasawa keeps a careful measure of their distance, enforced by anticipation. When they reach his apartment—a walk-up—he’s no sooner through the door than he’s backed against it, the wave-rush of his pulse swells as the man kisses his neck.

Harasawa focuses on the solidity of the metal behind him, the doorknob poking into his hip, the way the guy’s hands are moving across his chest and undoing the buttons on his shirt, skimming a nipple with the edge of his nail. He gasps, startled, right into the stranger’s mouth. Instinct buoyed by sensation has him sucking on the man’s lower lip, drawing it between his teeth and biting down until he feels an answering huff of laughter. “Bedroom,” Harasawa murmurs, and kisses him again.

“Show me,” is the response, light and low, a challenge rounding the edges.

He hasn’t brought anyone home in months, not even during the break between classes. His guest follows him through the small entryway. Next to the bed, Harasawa takes his hand and, when he’s met with an arched eyebrow, licks right up the line of his index finger. “All this clothing is a little excessive, don’t you think?”

Pleased to hear the slight strain dragging the words together, Harasawa grins. “I’m in an obliging mood.”

The soft weave of the man’s v-neck feels warm against Harasawa’s fingertips as he drops it to the floor. He allows himself to take in the lean musculature of his chest and arms, to feel the spike of want that has him shedding his shirt and trousers and—“here, let me”—helping his partner out of his own.

Harasawa has never been gladder to possess rather stringent organizational characteristics, and retrieves a condom and some lube from the top right dresser drawer. He sits on the bed; lies back. From this angle, the stranger looms. Harasawa looks at the slant of his hipbones, the thick jut of his cock, the tilt of his lips, and tries to breathe normally. “Care to open me up?”

He touches Harasawa like he doesn’t want to leave a square centimeter of skin uncovered; he’s strumming him into sound, into static. He follows his fingers with his tongue.

Harasawa jolts upwards. The man laughs against him, licks into him. Heat prickles up his spine and branches through him like lightning, twisting in on itself, and he pushes back against that mouth, unthinking, still chasing the dregs of sensation when it moves away. “Good,” he hears, and the voice is steeped in soft approval.

How humiliating. “Don’t be stingy.”

“No?”

He grips the sheets, closes off the moan that’s threatening to sound as his body twitches, moving against the grain of his control. Sweat sticks to his back and drips down his arms. The stranger works him full and wanting, and it’s maddening, asymptotic, a line of approach constant only in the hunger behind its reach. It’s too warm, thoughts about tomorrow’s lecture congeal in the vicinity of his stomach; he has to be up again in five hours.

“Come on,” he says, the words nearly slipping back down his throat with the effort, with the plea.

The man tilts his head, sits back on his heels. There is something narrowly appraising about his smile. Harasawa would rather not look.

Perhaps the man gleans something from this. He rolls the condom on and slicks himself. The heaviness of him as he stretches out over Harasawa is welcome, immobilizing; he begins to push in and they both sigh with it, through the heady grasp of waiting. It’s exactly what Harasawa needs, carefully wrapped up in the last hours of the season, bound and straining for more. He shifts his hips impatiently—this earns him a light slap on the ass—and lets the force of the thrusts spin tremors across his skin, past caring about the groans that are crawling out of him, palming himself to the lopsided rhythm of his pulse against the counterpoint of breath in his ear.

Harasawa throws his head back against the tide rising in his blood, and the man is biting at his neck, his chest, he won’t be able to leave his top button undone for weeks, he drags his nails down the man’s back and gets a hiss for his troubles. Those grey eyes snap open and he’s looking right at Harasawa, tense and direct and something too honest in the center and Harasawa cries out, spilling over both of them. The man follows him with a sigh that’s almost weary in its satisfaction.

He takes his leave before Harasawa worries that he’ll want to stay.

The arrival of morning is dealt with rationally and methodically. Harasawa drinks precisely the amount of coffee needed to get him through second period and pockets an aspirin should all else fail. His drive to the school is uneventful—he had previously identified and memorized the best route—and he encounters no issues finding his classroom.

His first class is Advanced Chemistry, almost entirely third-years who will hopefully be mature enough to ease them all into the semester gracefully. By the time the last stragglers file in, he’s functioning on autopilot, going over the syllabus and outlining his expectations.

He’s scanning the students with a practiced eye to take note of any sleepers or gossipers when he sees him, unobtrusive but awake as you please, several rows back, the glint of his glasses bringing out the soft challenge of his smile.

Harasawa stumbles through the rest of the lecture and prays that what he has written on the board is legible because the only thing he can actually see in the swirl of fog formerly known as his classroom is sitting up straight, taking notes on everything he says, and apparently seventeen fucking years old.

“Imayoshi Shouichi,” says the kid after class, when it’s just the two of them again, “I look forward to learning from you, sensei.”

His bow is perfect—short but not impertinent, respectful but not obsequious, and his smile does not break when Harasawa says nothing.

Imayoshi-kun exits the room.

Harasawa sighs and adjusts his trousers.


End file.
